


The Man Beneath the Armor

by Frenchcroatiansquid



Series: Shameless tickle fics [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sorry - couldn't resist, Teasing, Tickling, fluffy tickles, relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchcroatiansquid/pseuds/Frenchcroatiansquid
Summary: Breathless, cheeks flushed, a hint of a smile on his face, he seems strangely at peace with himself and the world. As he looks up, his eyes are filled with tenderness, and for half a heartbeat, all that affection forces the air out of her lungs and makes her want to flee the room, the tower, King's Landing, the realm. Instead, she bends down, gently squeezing his hips as she kisses him, making him laugh into her mouth.





	The Man Beneath the Armor

**Author's Note:**

> "I do avow that I have even observed her make him laugh, not once, but upon three separate occasions!" (Pycelle's letters to the Citadel)
> 
> This takes place the day Tywin is made Hand. Major warning for fluff.
> 
> Everything belongs to GRRM, always.

The air is cold, and all is quiet in the Red Keep as she hurries through the courtyard towards the Tower of the Hand.

Empty only a day ago, it is brightly lit now, torches burning in triumph, proclaiming to the world her house's greatest victory in decades if not centuries – and why not? It is vindication at long last; who knows where they will go from here, how high they can climb? (Tywin detests that word, _climb_ , but she doesn't allow him to dictate her choice of expression, much less her thoughts.)

“I'm come to see my cousin,” Joanna tells the guard; she's set to be married in less than a year, though it makes no difference to the red cloak; he knows her and, cousin or betrothed, lets her pass. Up the stairs she runs, taking two steps at once until she has to stop to catch her breath.

Tywin is in his study, where half the shelves are standing empty, waiting to be filled by the newly made Hand of the King. Sitting behind his desk right across from the great mirror on the wall that must have cost more than half the Crown's debt, his back is turned towards her, straight as a statue even as he scribbles furiously, drafting edicts in small, elegant letters, ever restless, always searching for ways to prove his worth to the world (though never ready to admit to such weakness as seeking the approval of others, she knows).

“You were mighty handsome today dressed in all that metal,” she says by way of greeting. Remembering his ceremonial armor puts a smile on her face: gilded steel infused with bursts of crimson, decorated with ruby-eyed golden lions on the front and sides – useless as nipples on a breastplate in battle, but magnificent to behold on a sunny winter day. “You looked so regal I nearly fainted when you made your entry; there is my love, I told the queen, and believe it or not, she turned green with envy when she saw you.” Her speech is a steady flow of words streaming out of her mouth like water from a well. You talk too much, Tywin always complains, can your tongue ever rest? It can, she replies, but why should it?

Tywin raises his head, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror, and even tempered by the dark glass, the intensity of his gaze is making her dizzy with a thrill that she, in all her eloquence, cannot put into words. “You mock me, Lady Joanna.”

“Perhaps, a little,” she allows, half annoyed half amused by his refusal to drop the honorific he only picked up in King's Landing, “but what of it? Men have their swords – all I have is my wit and my tongue to pierce through that heavy breastplate of yours.” She is standing right behind him now, tapping his chest, delicately running her fingers over the soft fabric of his tunic, feeling for his beating heart.

“Is everything a jest with you?” He asks, and she can't tell if he's cross with her or curious.

Oh, but I _mean_ it, she thinks. “You're solemn enough for the both of us,” she says. “And I don't intend to wed a statue, not even one wearing such splendid armor as yourself. But I was wrong; my tongue is not my only weapon.” Before he can protest, she rests her head on his, long golden curls falling over his shoulder, seamlessly blending into his own, wrapping her arms around him, trapping him in her embrace. There's a spot right beneath his ribs that will turn him into pudding; she can find it with her eyes closed, the benefit of having spent half a life growing up together.

Find it she does, and for a moment, the statue is gone, replaced by a mass of quivering flesh and struggling limbs, taken hostage by the invisible net of nerves relentlessly carrying the ticklish sensation towards his heart and sending back frantic commands to _escape_ , no matter the cost to his pride.

But he, too, knows her well; he has half anticipated the attack, and his recovery comes with disappointing speed. Now, he is prepared, his muscles transformed into solid iron plates shielding him from her probing fingers. She isn't one to give up easily though; all she has to do is find a single way in, and his defenses will collapse like the walls of Tarbeck Hall.

He's frozen in place, giving her the advantage: if he moves, he'll have to relax some of those muscles, making himself vulnerable. Her fingers wander up. “Under the arms is a man's weakest spot,” she explains, knowing he cannot contradict her without bursting into laughter. “Stab him there, and you will pierce right through to the heart.” Her hands move on, grazing his sides, shifting inwards towards his navel. “The bowels... another weak spot... Get a sword through the bowels, and no maester can save you.”

She continues with an explorer's curiosity, watching the cracks in his facade grow as he begins to twist and squirm. And suddenly, all that tense muscle turns soft, and he is coiling and writhing like a snake in her arms, mortified, no doubt, by the squeals and childish giggles that come pouring out of his mouth despite his best efforts to suppress them.

“Hush,” she whispers in his ear, “or someone will hear you, and how very improper that would be!”

“You _do_ mock me,” he protests between gasps for air as he collapses into her arms, surrendering, accepting the death of the man in the armor, knowing that he's naked and helpless before her – no, _embracing_ it; there's a difference, she thinks.

She stops, placing a kiss on his temple.

Breathless, cheeks flushed, a hint of a smile on his face, he seems strangely at peace with himself and the world. As he looks up, his eyes are filled with tenderness, and for half a heartbeat, all that affection forces the air out of her lungs and makes her want to flee the room, the tower, King's Landing, the realm. Instead, she bends down, gently squeezing his hips as she kisses him, making him laugh into her mouth.

“There is my love,” she says, solemn for once. “You look resplendent in your armor, but I like you better without it.”

 

 


End file.
